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SkiCountry Winter

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Fire<br />

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Welcome<br />

A<br />

to the<br />

southern<br />

Rockies<br />

n early snow, two feet. Light from<br />

the swollen moon drips through<br />

bare aspen branches rattling in the<br />

wind, blowing more winter this way.<br />

This moon – couched by the harvest<br />

moon in our wake and winter solstice<br />

still ahead – must have some powerful<br />

juju: dogs around the valley are<br />

howling their heads off, coyotes too,<br />

keeping the old-timers on the edge of<br />

sleep. And any animals still stuck inside<br />

whine and scratch at doors to get out<br />

and join the choir.<br />

Dogs have it made. They do their<br />

thing, and many days it feels like they<br />

run the place: they paw at doors to get<br />

in or out – we obey; they take a bathroom<br />

break – we clean it up; they play<br />

when they want, bark when it feels right,<br />

eat when it suits them, sleep when the<br />

mood strikes.<br />

They’ve always been a part of our<br />

culture, our everyday lives and language,<br />

from children’s rhymes – “Give<br />

a dog a bone, this old man…” – to song<br />

lyrics: “Who let the dogs out!” or “Ain’t<br />

nothin’ but a hound dog.” They’re part<br />

of our speech, our slang-guage: “dog<br />

tired,” “in the doghouse,” “can’t teach an<br />

old dog new tricks,” “going to the dogs.”<br />

And it’s no different here in the<br />

Southwest – when dogs are around,<br />

they tend to liven things up. They’re<br />

great for creating stories: everybody<br />

has a few favorites.<br />

We had a lab visit the ranch, lured<br />

there after smelling the sweet juices<br />

of a huge pot roast cooling in a pan in<br />

the shed. A couple of deep whiffs and<br />

he couldn’t stand it anymore. He broke<br />

through the shed door, nudged the pan<br />

off the shelf and quickly muckled the<br />

whole thing. Shortly, he swelled up like<br />

a pot-bellied pig and was moaning and<br />

miserable for days. His drooping eyes<br />

and face said he wanted forgiveness for<br />

his gluttony, but wanted even more for<br />

the swelling to go down so he could go<br />

back to being a dog instead of a pig.<br />

A French friend of mine was caught<br />

in an avalanche in the Alps, buried ten<br />

feet under. It was a ski patrol dog who<br />

sniffed him out. The dog started frantically<br />

digging like he was after a prized<br />

bone (not a crumple of living bones),<br />

and ended up saving my friend’s bacon.<br />

My friend has loved dogs ever since.<br />

We had a small hound for a time<br />

who loved to ride in front of me on<br />

a snowmobile, paws perched on the<br />

handlebars, tongue hanging out lapping<br />

up the cold air, skillfully leaning into<br />

corners. Other dogs stared at him with<br />

hound envy.<br />

There’s the tale of a dog falling into<br />

an ice fishing hole, a large one carved<br />

out with a chainsaw. Dog-paddling under<br />

the ice, he finally found another hole<br />

which happened to be in a nearby fishing<br />

hut where an old guy sat hunched<br />

over the hole, silently waiting for some<br />

action. He got it. When the dog exploded<br />

out of his hole, the old guy exploded<br />

straight through the side of his woodwalled<br />

hut. It didn’t slow him down a bit.<br />

“He sure could make tracks for an old<br />

guy,” said a witness.<br />

Another buddy of mine had a lab<br />

named Bubba who used to “pull a Houdini<br />

and disappear for days”– go on a<br />

dog walkabout. But he always returned,<br />

little worse for the wear. This particular<br />

time, Bubba didn’t come back. Days<br />

turned to weeks. “Missing dog” signs<br />

were put up around town, neighborhood<br />

kids questioned. Nothing. Gone.<br />

6 SKICOUNTRY 2015

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